


Hearts are Wild Things

by SambliongPalpatine



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SambliongPalpatine/pseuds/SambliongPalpatine
Summary: Alright, I watched only 4 episodes with my friend before I quit. But that 2 episode broke me. It. Fucking. Killed. Me. I wanted to squeeze Simon in a hug.Seeing though as he is behind a screen and I can’t traspass it, I took my pain and wrote this at 3 am before promptly passing out.I hope you enjoy.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Simon Basset/Anthony Bridgerton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I watched only 4 episodes with my friend before I quit. But that 2 episode broke me. It. Fucking. Killed. Me. I wanted to squeeze Simon in a hug. 
> 
> Seeing though as he is behind a screen and I can’t traspass it, I took my pain and wrote this at 3 am before promptly passing out. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

Simon is staring absentmindedly at the pile of letters in front of him. There is a maelstrom of emotions roaring inside of him, emotions he is not sure he can handle. 

Maybe he did wrong in coming back. He seems to only bring trouble wherever he goes. Maybe in trying to help Miss Bridgerton he just ruined her. Maybe he burnt his friendship with Anthony. 

Maybe he is scared. 

He is so deeply in his thoughts that he is unaware of the door to the study opening and shut and the approaching footsteps until someone kneels before him and hands clasp his own. 

His heart jumps. 

"Hastings," a beloved voice says softly. 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Do not," he whispers, pleads, because it hurts. 

A pause. And then a returned whisper. "Simon.”

He tightens his closed lids. "I wro-wrote t-to him," he inhales and exhales slowly, he knows there is nothing to fear from this person but it still mortifies him when his stamer comes out. "I th-thout that if I showed him my p-progress he would lo-love me," he swallows thickly and opens his eyes. "If my own father could not love me then who would?" with this he reveals one of his deepest, most secret fears; the fear of worthlessness and of being unloved. 

Anthony, his friend, is there kneeling in front of him. , with those dark soulful eyes staring at him. He squeezes his hands caringly. "The fact that your father was either unable or unwilling to love you by no means makes you unlovable," his friend declares in a firm voice. "My sister would grow to love you, if you so wish to continue with your courtship," a glimer of something flashes through his eyes. 

Simon’s heart wars against his ribs. 

‘"I made a vow I intend t-to keep," he murmurs. 

Anthony looks at him in fond exasperation, or maybe disappointment. "Why do you insist on condemning yourself to such loneliness?" he inquires. 

Simon’s words fail him. How can he answer such quarry? How can he explain what lays in his heart? If he knew, would he dare speak the words? There are secrets and there are truths that aren’t meant for words. 

His friend must think thusly because he stands without waiting for an answer, pulling Simon along. "Come, to bed with you."

"Are you propositioning me, Bridgerton?” he musters a faint smirk. "Because tonight I might just say yes," he lamely jests. 

"And that is exactly why I wouldn’t do it tonight," his friend replies without missing a beat.   
He still holds Simon’s hand. His heart beating wildly. If this were a difcerent circumstance or a different night, could it really be a proposition?

"Can-" he has to pause and inhale deeply so the words would not come out in a jumble. "Can you stay?"

Anthony halts just shy of closing the door to the bedchamber. He turns his head, surely ready with some witty remark, which he refrains from making when he sees the vulnerability in Simon’s face. 

"I can," he nods. "I shall."

Simon is positively sure his heart will break loose any time now. 

Anthony lays on his back while Simon’s head rests on his chest; arms wrapped around each other and their legs entangled. If Lady Whistledown could see them now. 

"Could you grow to love me, Anthony?" he mumbles in the brink of sleep. 

He barely catches the ‘already do,’ whispered into his hair. 

-

Simon half expects to wake ul alone. Anyone in Anthony’s position would have fled once they were certain he was asleep. 

It seems he underestimated his friend, for as he awakens he finds his friend still holds him. 

"Morning, Basset,” the man murmurs raspily. 

“Bridgerton, you- you s-stayed," he utters in delighted surprise. 

He cannot believe they are here, if it is for good or ill remains to be seen. 

"You did ask me to," is the simple reply. 

Simon is inclined to sequester them both in this room and never let go. But, to his knowledge, his friend has never shown any interest in men in such a fashion. But Simon has been so alone and Anthony is threading light fingers through his hair and-

Simon lifts his head and kisses him. 

Anthony is not returning the kiss. 

Simon’s heart plummets to the ground. 

He pulls away hastily, an embarrassed rouge coloring his cheeks. "Sh-shit Bridgerton, I am s-sorry," his mortification worsening his stammer. 

His friend clasps his arm before he can move too far. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he hurries to say. "You just caught me unaware,” he admits sheepishly. 

Simon blinks at him in puzzlement before his mind clears in understanding. "Oh, he says eloquently. 

Anthony smiles at him, his eyes pools of warm liquid darkness. "You do remember what we said right before falling asleep?" he asks amusedly. 

A figment of thought makes itself known; his half-conscious question and the consequent answer. So that really happened, sweet lord. 

Simon’s heart picks itself back up and redouble its beating. 

He is afforded time enough to see Anthony’s eyes sparkle before he, quick as a snake, darts up and kisses him. 

Sweet damnation. 

Simon thinks he could cry. This feels so right. 

"Does this mean I should stop courting your sister?" Simon gasps, in only jest. 

Anthony gives him a narrow look. "Basset," he says, nothing else is needed. 

"Worry not," he smiles. "I already have the Bridgerton I wanted," he confesses. 

Anthony smirks. "Is that so?"and the next instant Simon is the one looking up. "Because I do not recall." 

Simon looks at him, probably too adoringly, and smirks. "You stayed the whole night." 

"Yes." Anthony says, he tilts his head considering him seriously. "I stayed, I have stayed and I will continue to stay," and it sounds like a promise. 

Simon tips his head back, staring at the man above him. His heart beats wildly. "Is that what you really want?" he cannot refrain from inquiring. 

Anthony cocks an eyebrow and in a probably consider as ‘unmanly’, grabs Simon’s hand and places it over his own galloping heart. 

That is all the answer Simon needed.


	2. Love Changes Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I’m posting two fics in one chapter completely unrelated to the previous one (or to one another) because I’m lazy and don’t feel like going through the hazzard of creating new ones. 
> 
> Also, I said I had watched 4 episodes when in truth I only saw 3 cause I have no recollection of the duel my roommie told me about. They told me about Henry and Benedict too so I did end up watching the 4th episode and my brain went FIC! (not mind the other billion I have on the oven) and then I saw the tiny Henry/Ben scenes...so these were born; together. 
> 
> Let me also say that I tried my luck with smut but as an ace I’m not sure how well I did. They probably suck though. 
> 
> Anyhow, after this long-ass note, I hope you enjoy. I’m gonna go pass out now.

How could he do this? Anthony is-was?- his best friend. The man he loved, foolishly. And now- now he has nothing left but that love. 

Because he kissed Daphne. Almost in view of the public. 

He should have left, simply board the ship and depart Britain thus ceasing his disappointing everyone. Alas, his fickle heart had convinced him to do otherwise. 

Why kiss Daphne, however, he is not sure he wants to find the answer. 

Especially not when he is to face Anthony at dawn. And potentially die. 

So what else is there to do but get himself a drink. 

In Will’s boxing saloon. 

In the recent past this would be when he took himself to Anthony’s, probably requesting he be his second. 

Never again. 

Now his options have thinned. And honestly, he would not wish to bother anyone to go witness that. 

He cannot fight Anthony, they have been friends for years, they knew each other better than they knew themselves. He- he loves him. Not that Anthony knew of it. He would never know now. 

The devil take him, why had he kissed Daphne? 

God only knows how he wishes to die in this duel. He lost Anthony, what else is left in this world for him? 

If he dies he would be missed for some time but overall life would be the better for it. 

He has no family, nor friends. He was always a disgrace in his father’s eyes and surely the Monarchy can find someone fitter for the title. 

Anthony probably will not mourn him. 

He does not matter in the grand scheme of things. 

Will declaring he will be his second is comforting, even if he wants to persuade him of the contrary. The man does not deserve to see that. 

The sensitive thing to do would be to marry the woman, save her honor and hopefully quiet Anthony’s fury. But he cannot do so and not just because of his vow. 

"You love him, do you not?" Will quarries bluntly. 

Simon nearly chokes with his own spit. "Bloody hell," he coughs. "Go ahead and kill me already. Save Anthony the bother."

Will gives him a look. "Why did you kiss her, Simon?"

He thinks he rather not find the answer. 

"Are you really dueling him?" Will asks, softening a little. 

Simon shrugs, feeling helpless. "I have no choice," he says defeated. 

-

Simon’s heart is breaking, watching Anthony standing there with his gesture dislocated and he feels like crying. He never wanted to meet his fridnd in the other side of the field. Not with firearms. 

Much less when there is no hatred in his eyes but utter heartache. 

"For whatever is worth, I am sorry," he speaks quiet enough only for Anthony to hear. 

The man’s eyes glisten. "Your apology is worth nothing to me," he whispers brokenly. 

Simon accepts the pistol, watching the other do the same. He is not afraid of dying, he has wished for death so many times before that he is ready for it. 

He, however, would have never bestow his life to Anthony’s hands. 

Despite his determination and having a pistol in his hand, Tony is trembling. The emotion in his eyes makes hope ignite inside Simon. 

"Anthony-" he starts lowering his arm, maybe he can reason with his friend. 

Anthony also lowers his arm slightly. 

A horse neighs. 

A shot is fired. 

Someone falls. 

-

"You are the one I wanted to kiss," he admits quietly, eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he cards careful fingers through dark hair. "Forgive me, it was not my intention to-" he has to pause due to the lump constricting his throat. "I was weak."

After pacing his feet raw Simon finally opted to sit on the bed, next to his unconscious friend. He has stayed at this man’s bedside for the past three nights to watch over him. During the day Benedict comes and so Simon can go attend to his own affairs and then return in the evening. 

"If it were possible, you would be the one I would break my vow for," he murmurs. "I-"

"Where am I?"

Simon almost topples of the bed. He turns his head so fast he fears his vertebrae will pop. Anthony’s eyes are half-open and he stares confusedly at Simon. 

Simon has the urge to gather the man in his arms

"In your apartment," he replies. 

Anthony’s eyes are not half-lidded but narrowed. "And why are you here?" his tone is cold when he speaks. 

"You need someone to look after you at night," he exhales slowly. 

Anthony tries to incorporate but his face twists in pain and Simon hurries to place a hand on his shoulder to make the man lay back down. 

"You should refrain from moving," he warns. "Or you will rip your stitches." 

Anthony huffs but complies. "And you should not be here," he says dryly. 

Simon sighs, rubbing his forehead to try hold back his headache. "Your brother will be here soon and I may take my leave then," he says, sounding tired all of a sudden. 

"Why?" Anthony inquires silently. "I considered you my best friend," the devastation in his voice finishes Simon’s heart. 

"Because," he starts unsure. "I- s-s-she r-rem-minded me of something I want-ted but c-cannot have," bloody hell. Simon jumps from the bed, his face in his hands. "I am sorry, Anthony," he mumbles. 

"Hastings-"

That undoes him. He falls to his knees and lets himself feel the pain coursing through his body. The pain is exquisite, pulsing and alive. He finally lets himself cry. Love changes nothing, it never does. 

By God but is he not pathetic? Crying like a child because of a name. 

"Basset," is spoken gentler. 

"I am s-sorry," he repeats brokenly. "I am." 

"Simon-"

The door opens, making him jump back to his feet, wiping the tears from his face. "Ah, Benedict," he greets as composed as he is able. "Good, you are here," he clears his throat. 

The younger Bridgerton walks closer looking disheveled and there are bruises under his eyes that underly sleepless nights. "Your Grace," he says cordially. Then he turns, his eyes widen. "Brother," he exclaims between relief and exhaustion. 

"Benedict." Anthony breathes out. "What happened?" he asks with difficulty. 

The newcomer sighs before throwing himself onto a chair. "Mother thinks you are sick and that you will remain here until you heal." Benedict says. 

Simon uses this to gather his things and prepare to leave, he is no longer needed. 

"I think it is time for me to go," he announces. "I am glad you have awoken," he directs this to Anthony. 

The other two merely nod at him without saying anything. 

He says nothing of returning later as he is leaving. He does not plan to. 

Benedict presses fingers into his eyes as he exhales long and slow, dropping his head against the cushion. "Tony-"

"How is Daphne?" Anthony interrupts his brother. 

Benedict sighs. "She is alright," he huffs, smiling. "Better than, I would say." 

"What is that supposed to mean?” the older Bridgerton frowns. 

Benedict gives him a look. "The Prince has restated his intention to marry her," he smiles broadly. 

But Anthony’s frown only deepens. "I thought there had been a witness-"

"That has been taken care of," the younger brother dismisses. 

"Benedict," his brother starts, trying to sit up again but winces and desist. 

Benedict stands up and starts pacing. "Well, the Duke made sure that," he clears his throat pointedly, "certain details about how he tried to win Daphne back and how she rejected him were heard around the city." 

Anthony blinks in surprise. "How gracious," he mumbles. "He needn’t do that," and if there is a lingering bitterness well, no one is none the wiser. 

"Brother," Benedict sighs, "you should have a talk with him," he says gently. 

"Maybe I shall,” he says making no assured promises. 

The image of Simon on his knees,sobbing, makes something twist painfully inside of him. Seldom have been the times he has seen the man in such distress, not even in childhood and the boys at school bullyed him. 

He cannot fool himself and say watchhing Simon kiss Daphne only hurt for the dishonor it meant to his sister. 

Anthony resolves to talk with Simon when next he comes and let him state his peace. 

But Simon does not return. 

-6 Months Later-

Simon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, enjoying the predawn hour. At this time the only noise comes from nature and there is a cool breeze that feels pleasant and peaceful, which is exactly what Simon needs. 

The lawn has been recently mowned and he quite enjoys burying his bare toes in it. This has always soothed his spirit, especially these months of late. They have been filled with stress and heartache and loneliness. 

He has always been lonely, has he not? Then why is it harder this time?

After Anthony woke up and he had been reassured that he was on the mend, Simon decided to retire to Cliveden. There was no reason for him to remain in London. 

Lady Danbury’s opinions aside. 

He received news of Daphne’s wedding to the Prince but he did not assist. He simply could not go be subject to Anthony’s chagrin. He misses his friend, because that was all Anthony was ever going to be, but there is no remedying this relationship. 

He, contrarg to what Lady Danbury may think, is not without manners so he had sent a letter explaining himself and offer his apologies. 

It had gone unanswered, of course. He had not expected a reply. 

Simon sighs, letting the tension out of his body. Rejection and loveless ess are not unknown to him. And yet. 

Mastering an estate has proven to be an herculean task. His father purposely kept him appart from those affairs so he has to learn along the way. Which makes the work feel endless. 

"Why did I not board that cursed ship?" he asks to himself. 

"That is something I would like to know, as well."

Simon will forever deny the shriek that escapes his mouth at the sound of that voice. He is almost afraid of turning only to find it was an hallucination. 

But no, no. He is standing there looking perfectly disheveled; hair windswept, clothes askew, forehead and collarbones shining with sweat. 

"Anthony," he utters in such disbelief that he forgets he cannot call him by his given name just like that anymore. "W-what-" he stops before he can stutter some more. 

The other man cocks an eyebrow. "Basset," he says emphatically. 

Simon clears his throat, hoping it will help with his speech. "What are you doing here?" 

His unexpected guest gives him a hard look. "My sister missed you at her wedding," he says casually. 

Simon swallows. "Did you come all this way to tell me that?" he asks, the idea is trully ludicrous. 

His friend looks everwhere but at him, Simon recognizes the nervous gesture. "I wanted to reply to your letter," he confesses quietly. 

Simon’s heart constricts inside his chest. "Why didn’t you?" he whispers between wanting and not wanting to hear the answer. 

The man inhales deeply and returns his eyes to Simon. "I was unable to put into words what I wanted to say," he says with an emotion in his eyes Simon dares not name. 

They stare into each other’s eyes for a short eternity before Simon turns away, heart fluttering. "S-s-so you rode all the way here," he tries the words carefully, assuring himself of their veracity. "To rep-p-ply in person?"

"Yes," the other answers unequivocally and all-encompassing. 

Simon’s breath catches at the intensity in Anthony’s eyes. "Reply, then," he whispers. 

"At first I was angry, you had defiled my sister and that is something I could not forgive. But she spoke with me and said she had wanted it and that if men can kiss anyone they want so can women," he smiles fondly. "Also she said it did not matter because she ended up marrying the Prince and that I had no right to reproach her anything after my stint with Siena," he exhales. "Then she informed me of my foolishness at not seeing what is in front of me," he gives Simon a meaningful look. 

Simon is rooted in place; is he saying what he thinks he is saying? "Anthony," he chokes and cannot speak further. 

The man raises his other eyebrow. "Simon," he says back. 

That answers all questions Simon could have had. 

"Well, then," he stretches out a hand. "Now you see?"

Anthony smiles. "I do," and takes his hand. 

—

Benedict would never consider himself as bold. Not like Eloise or even Daphne, who speak their minds and make things happen. 

So as he sits in his pants and shirt while attempting to sketch the person laying asleep on the bed he feels a little bold. 

He is sketching Sir Henry Granville. 

Henry. 

After last night it would board in improper to call him otherwise. 

Benedict bits his lower lip, unable to refrain from thinking about everything that happened. 

-

Henry is definitely old enough to not be feeling like this: like he can fall in love with a man and have it be accepted. 

It, of course, will never be that easy. 

He has always known the Bridgertons to be something else. Henry should not be surprised that one of them had an artist’s soul. Henry smiles to himself thinking about Benedict Bridgerton and the prospect of seeing him again soon. 

"Darling," his wife brings him out of his daydreams. "Are you just going to bed?" she smiles knowingly. 

Henry shrugs. "The Bridgerton boy lost time," he says with a wistful look. 

That does not escapes his perceptive wife. She cannot help the worry that always comes with that look in her husband’s face. He is a kind, sweet, intelligent man, she wishes he could find someone who would see his worth and give him the love he needs. 

"Will he be coming to the soirée this weekend?" she asks, walking alongside Henry back to their rooms. 

"He said he would," he replies, his eyes glintting. 

Lucy sighs inwardly, hoping to all hope that this would not hurt him. 

Henry is intimately acquainted with heartbreak. He may be considered wrong by society but he still falls in love like everyone else. He is but a man with wants and needs and desires like any other man. Is his way of loving truly that wrong? Why must it depend on someone to stipulate what kind of love is wrong and which is right?

Love is not owned by anyone. It transcends humanity therefor it ought to be free. 

He thought he had found as estable a relationship as men like him are able to find with Wetherby. The man had promised...

Henry had been so relieved, in more than one way, after Miss Bridgerton’s wedding to the Duke. He thought that by sharing this with Wetherby the man would be soothed and their relationship could progress as usual. 

It was not to be so. 

Love makes fools of us all, does it not? 

He sprawls himself into an armchair and lets himself feel the pain. 

Then, unbidden, he thinks about Benedict Bridgerton. 

That is an assured disaster, uncharted territory that he would not want to thread. Another heartbreak too close to this last one may prove fatal. He probably would not survive it. 

Henry’s eyes travel to the secret sketchbook in which he indulges the other side of his artristy. The private place where he is free to draw whomever he wished. That is all that shall remain of his love. Always, his sketches are all that remains. 

A tear makes its treck down his cheek and he lets it, for everything that was and everything that never will be. 

A knock startles Henry out of his stupor. Lucy has gone to a very peculiar soirée of Lady Danbury’s and he certainly was not expecting visits. 

But then the knock comes again so he stands from the bed to go see to it. 

"What-" he starts a tinge too harshly while he yanks the door open but is unable to continue speaking when there is Benedict Bridgerton looking less than poised at the other side. "Bridgerton well, this is highly improper," he says, swallowing his surprise. 

"Ah, your wife called on me," the young man starts explaining clumsily, "said she had an invite to attend to but didn’t want you to be alone." 

Henry cocks an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. "You would do whatever my wife asked of you, would you not?" he retorts because as much as he wanted to see this man, being it by his wife’s command is not it. 

Benedict chuckles self-deprecatingly. "Granville, I think you have the wrong impression," he looks into Henry’s eyes. "She may have asked me to come but I am here for you," he swallows. "To apologize," he whispers. 

Henry studies him a minute longer before stepping away and letting him in. "Whatever for, Bridgerton?" he says, going to sit on the bed. 

Benedict remains standing near the close door. "My accosting you in that ballroom," he answers, "and made you feel... uncomfortable. It was not my intention," he says in earnest. "It is not my place to judge your love."

Henry laughs an empty, feeble thing. "You should not have troubled yourself, Bridgerton," he responds, feeling his throat closing, "it is all over now," this comes out in a broken whisper. "I appreciate it nonetheless."

"Oh," the other breathes, "I am sorry to hear it."

Henry gives a loose upward movement of his shoulders that cannot be called a shrug. "Do not concern yourself, Bridgerton," he says dispassionate, "it is not the first time and, were I to let it, won’t be the last either," if there is bitterness lacing his tone no one can fault him for it. 

"Henry," the other says, disregarding polite etiquette by calling him by his first name. "If he broke whatever promises he made you then he is not worth your sorrow," he says gently. 

"Who, then, deserves my sorrow?" he mutters, not really looking for an answer. 

"No one."

Henry inhales sharply when Benedict Bridgerton kneels in front of him and takes his hands, caressing their backs in almost reverence. 

"Benedict," he calls quietly, finally trying out loud the name he had guiltily spoken to himself once or twice before. 

"I am not making you promises I cannot keep," the man says, staring directly at him. "Safe that I won’t play with you and that I will still be your friend whatever happens," his eyes shine in earnestness. 

Henry cannot help but lean in and kiss him. 

"I must confess I half expected you wouldn’t come back," he says, staring at Benedict as if he were one of the Wonders of the World. 

"Why would you think that?" Benedict asks, approaching Henry. 

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant when in truth he is feeling anything but. He had feared that after their kiss Benedict had regrets. "I was not sure you really had the courage," he says, tentatively taking Benedict’s hand. 

"I suppose that is fair," he replies, holding Henry’s hand more firmly. "But I did promise I wouldn’t play with you," he gives Henry a look. "My talk about honor was not just that."

Henry lowers his head. "Perhaps I was quick to misjudge," he admits. 

"Perhaps I gave you motives to do so." Benedict concedes. "What with the way I acted when I found out."

"Yes I certainly thought it had costed me your friendship." Henry chuckles before growing serious again. "Or that you would ruin me,"   
he says. "I never imagined we would end up here." 

Benedict frowns. "I would have never done that," he snaps. "What gave you the impression I might?"

Henry sighs wearily. "Society says it is unatural, not everyone is so... accommodating," he says with defensiveness lacing his tone. 

"I have never cared about what society thinks."

Henry scoffs, preparing a retort when, in a bold move that surprises them both, Benedict kisses him and his mind goes blank. 

It is such a tender kiss that almost brings Henry to his knees. He wraps his free arm around Benedict’s neck, twisting his fingers in the soft hair there. Benedict wraps his arm around Henry’s waist, settling his hand on his lower back. 

"Have you any experience?" Henry pants, breath ghosting against the other’s lips. 

Benedict blushes endearingly. "Enough," he whispers. 

"Enough," Henry echoes. "What is enough?"

"Enough to know I want you," the other says then smirks. "Enough to know what to do."

Henry’s laugh becomes a moan when Benedict starts kissing down his neck. "Are you certain it is what you want?" he cannot ignore the ember of doubt in his heart. 

Benedict leans back enough to look into his eyes. "This is not me experimenting," he reafirms, stealing a quick kiss, a promise. 

Henry nods. The fear and uncertainty will always be there but Benedict is a Bridgerton and there is no ordinary Bridgerton. He may surprise yet. If it is even possible when he has already been surprised by this man. 

"Show me, then," he whispers, using the hold he has on the man to lead him to the bed. 

Benedict follows with a small smile. They undress each other slowly, pressing soft kisses to newly revealed skin. 

Benedict kisses him as he lowers Henry onto the mattress, his arms around the younger man, his hands twisted in his hair. Benedict’s hands are exploring every expanse of skin, threading fingers through the coarse hairs littering his chest and tickles him when he squeezes his sides. 

Henry places a hand on the other’s chest to make him stop. "Wait," he says, ignoring the aprehensión in Benedict’s eyes in favor of rolling over to retrieve a small flask with oil he keeps under the bed. 

Benedict accepts it, recognition flashing in his face. He glances at Henry who tenses for a moment, thinking he had read this wrong and that Benedict doesn’t really want this, him. 

But the other man nods to himself and leans back in for a kiss. Henry sighs into it, letting himself get lost in it. Benedict kisses him with such careful passion, exploring and conquering every cavity and- oh.   
He moans loudly when a finger breaches him; he was so distracted with the kisses that he hadn’t notice Benedict uncorking the vial nor lathering his fingers. 

"Is that alright?" his lover rushes to ask, a worried crease between his eyebrows. 

"Quite." Henry reassures, smoothing the frown with a thumb. "It caught me off guard, that is all," and he wiggles his hips to encourage the man to continue. 

With one last kiss to his mouth, Benedict starts kissing down his neck and collarbones until he stops to pay attention to one of his nipples. Henry closes his eyes in enjoyment as a thrill runs down his spine. 

Benedict moves his attentions to the other nipple and Henry can feel him smirk against his skin when a tug elicits a high moan from him. Henry tugs at his hair in retaliation, which earns him an answering groan. 

Benedict adds a second finger at the same time he takes Henry’s cock in his mouth, so now he has double stimuli; the warmth of Benedict’s mouth and the pressure of his fingers, it all feels like too much and yet not enough that he could cry. 

"Benedict, I’m going to-" he tugs at his hair, trying to get his point across. 

Benedict pulls away with a lurid ‘pop’’ and shushes Henry’s whimper with a kiss. He grabs the vial to pour more oil onto his palm and prepare himself. They both hold their breath as he pushes in and exhale at the same time once he is fully seated. 

After a few minutes, Henry wraps both arms and legs around his lover, bringing him down for a kiss. "And you were asking about romance," he huffs, smiling ironically. 

Benedict groans in mortification, hidding his face in Henry’s neck. "Do not remind me," he complains. 

Henry rolls his hips, chuckling when Benedict groans again. "Move, then," he commands. 

The man pulls nearly all the way out and thrusts back sharply, smirking at Henry’s intake of breath. "You did ask for it," he says, nipping playfully at his earlobe. 

The sound he lets out is a mixture between a laugh and a moan that makes Benedict nip his earlobe again. His thrusts are slow and languid, his caresses are sure but gentle and his kisses are heated and exploratory. 

Henry has no complaints; he enjoys it when his partners take their time, when they explore and allow to be explored in return. He enjoys it when they laugh, when they leave all pretenses behind and let themselves be. When they don’t feel shame or disgust afterward. 

Benedict is an attentive lover, he touches and kisses and hears Henry’s command to go harder. They find complition together, whispering each other’s names against their lips. 

Benedict lets him rest his head on his shoulder and wraps his own arms around him after they have cleaned and are laying together under the covers. 

This is not love, not quite yet. But Henry is sure that it won’t be long for it to be. 

Somehow he knows that this time he won’t be left behind.


End file.
